


The Blind Elvenking

by lily_winterwood



Series: All That is Gold Does Not Glitter [3]
Category: Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, Sherlock (TV), The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Middle-earth Setting, Friendship, Gen, casefic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-25
Updated: 2013-05-17
Packaged: 2017-11-22 09:54:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/608532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lily_winterwood/pseuds/lily_winterwood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What begins as the theft of the Elven-queen’s brooch quickly turns, for Sílchanar Eregnirion and Hanncome Watson, into something much more tangled, like the web of a spider. Middle-earth AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Character names have been changed to adapt to Middle-earthian naming customs. If it’s not obvious later on, Sílchanar Eregnirion is Sherlock, Alhelon is Dimmock, Eyvindr is Van Coon, Brynjarr is Lukis, Lhingron is Zhi Zhu, Torien is Soo Lin, and Dolien is Shan.
> 
> Also, at the suggestion of my beta I have decided to make the rest of this series solely from first person, John's perspective. Sorry if that inconveniences you.

_From the Memoirs of Hanncome Watson of Bywater, as translated from manuscripts discovered with the Red Book of Westmarch._

In 2984, and shortly after my fiftieth birthday, I took a trip to Bree with my good friend Merovech Stamford to attend to business with the Prancing Pony. They had a habit of importing our ale, and I was to ensure the delivery of a set of twenty-five casks. Having accounted for everything, I thus originally intended on spending the night and setting for home the day after.

However, that was soon to change when I heard the rumours of dwarf slayings in the town, and of how the Dúnedain had called on an elf from Rivendell to help solve the case. His name was Sílchanar Eregnirion, and he would soon become my friend.

It was odd and quite inexplicable, how the ellon had taken a liking to me. Perhaps it was the very nature of my being outside the Shire. Perhaps it was my curiosity in his methods. Nevertheless, Sílchanar Eregnirion solved the study in mithril – there certainly was a lot of _mithril_ – and invited me to accompany him back to Rivendell.

There, I would learn that he was not as flawless as I thought.

We hobbits seldom encounter elves; indeed they are the stuff of lore, the ethereal beings that my mother told me about when I was a suckling-babe clasped to her bosom. Those of us with more of a mind for adventure – and we are few and far in between – often wish to meet an elf. And some of us do, but from afar. To us, they are creatures of immense power and beauty, with skin almost translucent and glowing, with ageless voices and faces. Sílchanar, with his pale face, his dark hair, and his keen grey eyes, was nothing less than that.

But in Rivendell I learnt much more. In Rivendell, I learnt of his past and the demons that still haunted him – the addiction, the boredom, the distrust between him and the other elves. He had one of the keenest minds in Arda (second only to that of his brother Maechenebon), and yet he spent his days wallowing in boredom and temptation to revert to his old bad habits.

Certainly I could not let such a mind go to waste. Sílchanar Eregnirion was a great elf, I could see. And perhaps, someday, I’ll be able to see him as a good one.


	2. Chapter 2

Between the study in mithril and our next case together, I heard little from Sílchanar. He would pass through the Shire, though, often on cases in which I had no part. It may have seemed, to most Shire-folk at least, that unnaturally spirited Hanncome Watson had settled down at long last to take care of the family establishment, but nothing could be further from the truth. Hanncome Watson had left the care of the Green Dragon in the capable hands of his older sister Hilda, and ran off to become a healer instead.

This strange change of course had come as a result of my dear father’s passing. I had, prior to this, studied healing through books and charts all up and down the Shire, and shadowed other doctors on their calls. It was no substitute for obtaining my own practice, though. After Father’s passing, after the will had been settled so dear Hilda could inherit the inn, after all semblances of responsibility had been shifted from my shoulders, I built myself a humble medical practice. My clients ranged anywhere from the well-to-do to the very poor, from the oldest hobbits with creaking joints to the youngest newborns with terrible cases of colic. I set broken limbs, cleaned wounds, even performed minor surgeries and stitches, and when the usual seasons of fever and flu came about at the change from fall to winter I was constantly on my rounds and would only return to the Green Dragon in the early morning for a couple hours of sleep.

Indeed, it was this work that kept me sane at all throughout those first years after Father’s passing. Despite Hilda and Mother’s insistences, I still felt myself partially to blame for his death. I had been, after all, in Rivendell at the time, visiting Elves and not caring about my poor alcoholic father. By the time the letter reached me, by the time Sílchanar and I returned to the Shire, it had been too late. Sometimes at night, in those quiet moments that haunted the corners of my existence, I would dream of blood on my hands and a pounding in my heart like drums, drums in the deep. I would think, too, think of what-could-have-beens, of the chances of Father surviving if I had gone home from Bree instead of Rivendell, if I had gotten home sooner. Father had died of alcohol poisoning. I still wonder if I could have saved him.

In those moments, I also thought of Sílchanar. He seldom took cases in the Shire, for we hobbit-folk often prefer to deal with our own problems by ourselves instead of involving the meddling Big Folk like Sílchanar and the Dúnedain. True, sometimes they were called upon, but those cases were often partly out of our hands anyway. Sílchanar, however, was rarely a welcomed face in the Shire, considering his tendency to scoff at us hobbit-folk for our eating habits and our sedentary lifestyles. Despite that, I missed the elf. I often thought, in my darker moments, that he had forgotten me.

Judging by his sudden appearance at the Green Dragon one blustery night, he hadn’t.

That night, I’d returned late from a smial-call in Hobbiton. I’d barely hung up my cloak and wiped my feet on the rug before I noticed him sitting in a chair by the fireside in the tavern, cloak drawn all around him. He was drinking a cup of tea, probably the handiwork of Widow Hudson, Hilda’s new helper and housekeeper around the inn. The other patrons of the tavern were giving him a wide berth, too, and he wasn’t exactly inconspicuous.

“You have been to Bag End, I presume,” he remarked, raising an eyebrow. I sighed.

“How in Arda did you –?” I asked as I crossed the room, nearly upsetting old Hamfast Gamgee’s mug of ale as I wound around several tables to greet my friend. Much to my surprise and delight, Sílchanar actually deigned to let me embrace him.

“Simple,” he replied as we broke apart. “It’s raining in Hobbiton. Your cloak is wet and your feet are caked with mud you can only get from the Hill.”

“You’ve actually had the time to find different types of soil in the Shire.”

“I merely observed.” Sílchanar smiled at me. “It’s been far too long since we last worked together. Two years, I believe!”  
He seemed to be in a good enough mood to actually make some form of small talk. It was encouraging, to say the least.

“Gruesome years, though,” I replied. “What sort of adventures have you been up to?”

There were several hobbits unabashedly staring at us, so I gestured for Sílchanar to follow me back into the family rooms. In the sitting room Widow Hudson was darning my favourite beige-coloured woolly waistcoat by the fire – it was far from the usual bright colours for the style-conscious hobbit, but it was definitely the most comfortable article of clothing that I owned.

“Good evening, John,” said Widow Hudson.

“Evening,” I said, smiling at her. “How is Mother?”

“Asleep. Hilda still working?”

I nodded, remembering the frown lines on my sister’s pretty face. “I’m sorry,” I sighed.

“No need to.” Widow Hudson looked up from her darning, eyes twinkling as she looked at Sílchanar. “Sílchanar, it has been long since I last saw you, dear!”

Sílchanar laughed, and allowed her to embrace him as well. I was faintly surprised.

“You two know each other?” I asked.

Sílchanar chuckled. “A couple years ago I helped her with a case that started with some missing silverware, and ended with finding her husband gambling in Bree with some unsavoury Men who killed him after the game.”

“Oh.” I said. “I’m sorry.”

“He’d been having an affair in Bree, too. I can only grieve for so much,” added Widow Hudson with a shrug. “But your poor mother had a far worthier husband. Shame that he drank himself to death, though – I rather fancied him when I was younger.”

I nodded, feeling that familiar thick lump in my throat that rose whenever mentions of my father came up. Father was a good hobbit, I think. He certainly loved my mother, as carefree and Tookish as she was. They were happy together, even if they were completely different elsewhere.

I took the seat opposite Widow Hudson. Sílchanar stretched out on the sofa nearby, crossing arms and legs and looking, for all intents and purposes, like some giant elf-spider with spindly limbs and pale features. I found it rather endearing.

“Frodo or Bilbo?” he asked.

I stared. “What?”

“Frodo or Bilbo – which Baggins did you doctor?”

“Oh, Frodo. Yes. Mild bout of stomach flu, told Bilbo to make him some honey-and-salt water.”

“I see.” Sílchanar turned to look at me, uncrossing his arms to steeple his fingers. “I do hope the Shire can fend for itself for a while, because I need you to come with me on a case.”

* * *

 

Sílchanar would speak no more of the case that night; he only divulged that it was of great importance and that we had to make haste and head for the great forest of Mirkwood the very next day. That was hardly enough warning for me to pack my bags with provisions.

“We will stop by Rivendell for supplies and food, but we cannot tarry overlong,” Sílchanar insisted the next morning as he chivvied me and my pack out the door.

I still had half a seed-cake in my hand, so naturally I protested, “But I need a good breakfast before this adventure, Sílchanar –”

“We cannot wait!” snapped the ellon. “Time is of the essence!” Without warning, I found myself swept up and set astride his stallion Rochael. The horse whinnied amusedly at my discomfort. I glared at both elf and horse.

Sílchanar only grinned cheekily as he mounted behind me. “Noro lim, Rochael, noro lim!” he cried, and with alarming alacrity we were off, galloping eastward through quiet pre-dawn Bywater. Some hobbits were already up and about in their gardens, enjoying an early morning smoke; they stared at me oddly and whispered amongst themselves.

And in that moment, I suppose I became Mad Baggins’s sidekick to the little hobbit-children of the Shire.

We rode on in silence, punctuated by the steady rhythm of Rochael's hooves. Sílchanar said nothing, his mind probably focused on whatever time-sensitive case lay ahead. I looked around me, squinting against the wind flying in my face. Around me, the fields of the Shire rolled past in waves of bright green, interrupted by hobbit-holes and colourful gardens. We passed by small rivers and farms as well, and welcoming copses of trees. Up ahead, the Brandywine River and the more forbidding shape of the Old Forest drew nearer and nearer.

As we galloped over the Brandywine Bridge, as the edges of the Old Forest crept up around us, Sílchanar spoke up again.

“You’ve got questions,” he remarked.

“Yeah, what exactly are we going to do in Mirkwood?” I asked.

Sílchanar chuckled. “The Elvenking has asked us to investigate the disappearance of the queen’s brooch. Next?”

“How long does it take to get there?”

“About two weeks, if you skip some of your meals.”

That shouldn’t have surprised me, since Sílchanar never failed to criticise a perfectly normal hobbit’s diet, yet it did. “Skip... meals?” I demanded, blinking the dust of the Road out of my eyes.

“Yes. It takes us three days to get to Rivendell if we ride as fast as Rochael can take us. We then will take the High Pass across the Misty Mountains, which – provided we aren’t waylaid in any way – will take us four more days to traverse. Then we visit the Beornings at the Carrock for more provisions, and spend the second week along the elf-paths that will lead us to Thranduil.” Sílchanar paused, and I could feel his gaze on me. “We will ride on through the night whenever possible, and you will have to eat as opportunity arises.”

I considered it. There was, of course, the unspoken second option for me to skip this adventure, but I would have none of that. My stomach, despite having digested a seed-cake back in the Shire, was growling for second breakfast already.

Sílchanar heard it, of course, and chuckled as he pulled out a bit of waybread and pressed it into my hands. “Slave to your metabolism indeed,” he sighed as we rode around the woody expanse of the Old Forest. 


	3. Chapter 3

Most of the first leg of our journey passed without more incident than me waking in the dead of night to the sound of howling wargs, but they were always far-off and probably unlikely to attack a galloping horse. We did stop more often than I had expected, though, to let Rochael rest for a few minutes. I quickly learnt to use that time to relieve myself and to steal quick bites of Sílchanar’s waybread.

However, the howling wargs remained on my mind, especially at night when they and their Orcish allies would be most active. I had never encountered either, and I hoped I would never have to.

That, as I would later come to realise, was impossible when one rode with Sílchanar Eregnirion.

We stopped in Rivendell, as anticipated, to give Rochael a night’s rest before setting off again for the High Pass. This time, after stabling the horse, Sílchanar led me directly to his room. It was still a disorderly place, with odds and ends stacked up to the ceiling – books and phials and maps of all colours and sizes, and a skull on the mantelpiece – and the two comfortable armchairs in front of a cheery fire. The ellon’s fiddle sat in one of them, and several parcels lay on the low table between the armchairs and the sofa lying against the wall.

“Compliments of my dear brother,” Sílchanar explained, handing me the cloth-wrapped parcels. He crossed the room to the shelf and took down a sword, unsheathing it to inspect it in the firelight. The ruddy glow shone on runes carved into the hilt and along the blade, runes that I could not read – but Sílchanar apparently could.

“What is that?” I asked.

“My sword,” replied the ellon, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah, but has it always been yours?”

Sílchanar pursed his lips and nodded. “Open yours,” he suggested, gesturing to my cloth-wrapped bundle. I did as he was told, and uncovered a long dagger – a perfect Hobbit-sized sword – and a set of small throwing knives.

“Maechenebon sees nothing of battle these days, and thought to pass on his dagger to you. I asked the smiths to make you those knives. They owed me a favour,” he explained as I marvelled at the weapons – they were almost feather-light, yet extremely keen and sturdy. “The blades of both dagger and knife glow blue when Orcs are near.”

“Sounds like they will come in handy,” I replied, re-sheathing the blades. “Thank you.”

“It was no problem.” Sílchanar shrugged. “You can still throw knives, right?”

It had been my good aim, gained by games of darts with other hobbit-children in my youth, which had saved Sílchanar’s life on our first case together. In the time between I had only occasional practice, most of which involved throwing rocks at apple-laden boughs. It was always such fun trying to knock down apples from the tallest branches, even when they had an unfortunate tendency to knock me on the head on their way down. Younger hobbits preferred climbing the trees; I found myself loath to get anywhere on any branch higher than three feet off the ground.

I nodded, and Sílchanar seemed to relax in relief at that. He then shooed me off to my old room, for a bath and then dinner.

The Last Homely House was still as timeless in its beauty as I last remembered it, and I would have stayed forever if I could. I took the opportunity to enjoy that evening by sitting in the Hall of Fire, listening to the flowing music. Sílchanar was cooped up in his room, and I could not see any of the other elves I had met on my last trip to Rivendell.

As the evening deepened into night, I found myself traversing the meandering garden-paths, with only the trees and waterfalls for company. Up through the leafy canopy I could see the Silmaril of Eärendil glittering in the sky, bright amongst even the most radiant of Elbereth’s stars. I smiled, inhaling the sweet, pure air of Rivendell, and let the mists of the nearby waterfall tickle at my nose.

“I ven hen delu, Sílchanar. No dirweg; tôl auth.”

I turned at the sound of voices, seeing two figures standing on a bridge not too far from me; the water must have carried their voices to me. Sílchanar was one of them; the wind blew through his curly black hair and the moon shone silver on his pale brows. The other was also familiar – she was an elleth with flowers in her chestnut brown hair.

I heard Sílchanar reply, “Avo drasto, Meluithel.”

“Goston angin a Hanncome. Avo faro an drastad.”

“Avon. Avo drasto!” There was a pause. Meluithel then began to speak in rapid-fire Elvish, and Sílchanar was retorting in kind – I could catch the name Maechenebon several times, so I assumed it was some sort of argument about Sílchanar’s older brother. After all, it was one of Maechenebon Eregion’s favourite hobbies to keep a close watch on his little brother through any means necessary. He had, when I first visited Rivendell, tried to bribe me into spying on Sílchanar for him.

I thought it would be a good idea to slip away, and I spoke nothing of it to Sílchanar the next morning as we finished our breakfasts of fruit and bread and set off on our way for the Misty Mountains.

However, we’d barely made it out of the gates before Meluithel was there again, handing me a small basket of preserves. Sílchanar’s eyes narrowed. Meluithel raised an eyebrow at him.

“Hanncome,” the elleth said, “take care of this fool for the rest of us, won’t you?”

I laughed. “Why?”

“Because the High Pass is crawling with goblins and wargs again, and this ellon has no sense of self-preservation.” Meluithel blew me a kiss, to my surprise, and stepped away. “Na lû n’i a-goveninc, Hanncome!”

* * *

We ascended the High Pass of the Misty Mountains without much incident, occasionally getting down and walking alongside Rochael to let the horse rest from his burdens. Rochael sometimes would nip at the sparsely-growing foliage that dared to eke out a living amongst bare rock – foliage that thinned out the higher we went. Sometimes the mountain-paths were so narrow that we had no choice but to dismount and walk in a line, me in front of Rochael and Sílchanar behind. It was those moments when I had to remind myself not to look down, because the steep gorge between the mountains was filled with sparse trees dotted amongst a plethora of sharp, jagged rocks.

The first night we camped under an overhang, since traversing the High Pass was dangerous business at night. Sílchanar had started a small fire, but it did precious little to chase away my chills, and I thought that it would be rather ironic for a healer-hobbit like me to come down with a terrible head-cold.  Sílchanar was, as ever, impervious to the wind and cold, and gave me his black cloak as he leaned forwards, as if listening to the wind.

“The wargs that were tracking us west of the Bruinen have crossed,” he said after a moment. I gulped. Rochael whinnied softly, snuffing at a small tuft of dry grass.

The second day went by without incident as well, except for some occasional bits of howling that didn’t sound like the wind to my ears. Sílchanar was clearly chafing at not being able to move quickly through the mountains – Meluithel’s warnings seemed to have affected him much more now that he knew enemies were after us.

“Why would the wargs be after us?” I asked him on the second night, just as I was about to drift off. We were once more just off the side of the road in an overhang – Sílchanar distrusted all caves, no matter how shallow – and this time there was no fire, only waybread and a bottle of miruvor.

“I have some theories,” replied Sílchanar quietly. “But I do not wish to believe any of them until I have proof.”

“Why not?”

He laughed. “It is wrong, my friend, to make conclusions when one does not have all the facts. Take a look at the tracks ahead of us on the road, for one.”

I blinked. “There are tracks on this road?” I asked, gesturing to the gravelly road beyond the overhang.

“Elf-tracks. You wouldn’t have seen them.” Sílchanar sighed. “Horses, too. An entire company of Elves took this pass before us. Judging by the imprints, they must be a day or two ahead.”

“But no one in Rivendell spoke of their kin travelling across the mountains,” I said.

“I doubt they’re from Rivendell,” replied Sílchanar. “You should sleep.”

“Why won’t you?”

“I have no use for such,” replied the ellon. “I shall keep watch. Sweet dreams.”

The last thing I saw was him, silhouetted against the faint moonlight, breath fogging in the cold mountain air.

* * *

The clanging pierced through the fog of my dreams, causing me to jolt awake in alarm. Immediately, my hands went to the hilt of my dagger as I sat up, looking around.

Sílchanar was nowhere to be found, but suddenly from up ahead there came a hideous roar. Fear gripped at my heart as I leapt to my feet. The sounds of fighting renewed again, with a cry renting the morning air.

_Sílchanar._

Rochael whinnied in alarm as I darted out under the overhang, drawing my dagger. It was glowing bright blue – Sílchanar was fighting nearby Orcs. The battle came from up ahead; in the time it took for me to get to the skirmish, my heart had never beat faster.

But by then I could see that I wasn’t needed. There was someone else there with Sílchanar, blond hair flying in the morning light. Together, the ellyn fought what looked like a small hunting-party of Orcs that were using the pre-dawn as a sort of last stand.

At last they cast the Orcs down from the side of the mountain as the first rays of sun peeked out from behind the mountains, and the strange ellon turned to Sílchanar, saying something. Sílchanar turned and saw me, before gesturing to the other ellon.

They made their way to me; the ellon was saying something in Elvish that I couldn’t quite catch. Sílchanar was nodding, eyebrows raised, and I continued to back away until we were at the overhang once more. Rochael whinnied reprovingly at me; I glowered at him and sheathed my dagger, starting to pack up.

“John,” Sílchanar said suddenly. “This is Legolas Thranduillion of the Woodland Realm.” There seemed to be thinly-veiled disdain in the ellon’s voice. “He comes with a message for us.”

Legolas looked at Sílchanar with narrowed eyes, but turned and addressed me, “Greetings, Master Hanncome of the Shire. I have come to make sure you and your... _pleasant_ companion... can travel through the Greenwood without further incident.” He looked back at Sílchanar. “We cannot tarry. It is already morning, and evil tidings await us not only in the halls of my father, but also in Esgaroth.”

“What’s happened there?” I asked.

Legolas’s grey eyes were grave. “There has been a murder.”

 


	4. Chapter 4

Legolas did as he said he would do, and secured us safe passage along the elf-paths of Mirkwood. Before venturing in, we restocked our provisions at the Carrock, home of the great shapeshifter Beorn and his kin; then we traversed along the Forest Path to the caverns of Thranduil. Legolas had his own horse; like Sílchanar, he rode bareback. However, _my_ backside was, to say the least, extremely sore by the time we finally made it to the Elvenking’s halls and entered through the enchanted door.

Throughout the trip, however, I could see that Legolas and Sílchanar were barely struggling to remain civil for my sake. I wondered why, before I remembered that Sílchanar wasn’t exactly Middle-earth’s favourite elf. As intelligent and keen-eyed as he was, Sílchanar Eregnirion often viewed the rest of us – myself included – as a bunch of fools. He retained some level of respect for Lord Elrond and possibly Gandalf the Grey, although he often called the latter a ‘smoke-clouded old fool’. Even then, that may have been an endearment coming from him – Sílchanar was fond of pipe-weed, even if he didn’t smoke.

But Legolas! There were times when I could see the blond elf barely holding his tongue, especially when Sílchanar criticised the Wood-elves over and over again for their lax security and their incompetent guards. My friend did have a point, though. The Wood-elves _had_ unwittinglyallowed thirteen Dwarves and Bilbo Baggins escape via their underground stream all those years ago.

“Father, I have returned with Sílchanar of Rivendell,” Legolas announced as we entered the main hall. The pillars all around us were carved in a way that made me feel as if we stood in a stone forest. The halls were dark, lit by flickering torches and bright fires, but it was not an oppressive dark. It felt more as if the Wood-elves had somehow combined the majesty of Rivendell with the underground comforts of the Shire; it felt almost like home.

“Menegroth recreated,” Sílchanar muttered to me. “Thranduil once lived in the halls of Elu Thingol.”

The names were only dimly familiar; I remembered hearing something about Thingol and Menegroth in the Hall of Fire. It felt like ages ago.

We stepped out from the shadow of the pillar to see the Elvenking seated on his throne; he wore upon his brow a crown of berries and red leaves, and he looked at us with shrewd grey eyes. I found myself bowing; Sílchanar merely inclined his head with one hand pressed to his heart.

“At your service, sir,” he said, slipping into the role of deferential without any notice. I blinked, before remembering my own manners.

“Hanncome Watson at your service, O King!” I squeaked, especially as the Elvenking turned to me with a raised eyebrow. No doubt he, too, remembered Bilbo Baggins.

Thranduil nodded at the two of us. “Of course. We have not been idle waiting these two weeks for you, though, and you will be duly informed of all developments that have occurred in our case since the first report.” He looked at Legolas. “Send for the captain of the guards.”

* * *

“Im Alhelon,” stated the captain of the guards. He was a bit stocky for an elf and had dark blond hair that bordered almost on brown; his hands were planted firmly on his hips as he stared down Sílchanar almost challengingly. Sílchanar regarded him coolly, and I felt extremely lost in between.

“Sílchanar,” replied Sílchanar with his usual charm (I’m fairly certain there are more charming Orcs out there). There was clearly no love lost between the two.

Alhelon turned to me. “A de?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

I had the feeling he wanted to know who I was, so I stammered, “I... I’m Hanncome Watson, sir.”

“Perian?”

“No, he’s a _Dwarf_ ,” retorted Sílchanar drily. “Tell us what you know about the theft and the murder in Lake-town. Please leave all accounts of your own incompetence out of it.”

Alhelon glowered at him, and set off for a passageway that sloped downwards, deeper into the Elvenking’s halls. He grabbed a torch on the way; Sílchanar and I followed him.

“You are aware that the object that was stolen was the queen’s favourite brooch?” he asked as we went.

“Yes,” replied Sílchanar. “Incidentally, where _is_ the queen?”

A shadow passed over Alhelon’s face. “Dead,” he spat.

“Spiders?” asked Sílchanar.

“Yes.”

“My apologies.”

Alhelon harrumphed, but made no further comment on the matter. I glared at Sílchanar.

“That was a bit not good,” I snapped at him.

“It is unfortunate, but I cannot get entangled in the _emotional_ backgrounds of my cases,” replied Sílchanar, spitting out the word ‘emotional’ as if it was a poisoned leaf.

“But she... she was the queen!”

“And she has been dead for quite a while, judging by the state of things around here.” Sílchanar sniffed at the air; it was getting more and more dank the deeper we descended into the halls. “Of course, the scene of the theft must have been destroyed since then, and I have equally low expectations for the murder in Lake-town. Do we have a body?”

“No,” replied Alhelon. “The Lake-men reported that there was no body in the house, but there was blood and a flat piece of rock.”

“Blood? In what shape and placement? From stabbing or arrows?”

“Arrows, I think.”

“No, you don’t,” snapped Sílchanar. They stopped at that moment in front of a door; Alhelon turned to face my friend, expression furious.

“When Lord Elrond warned us of your impertinence, he certainly did not lie,” growled the captain of the guards. “There is no love lost between your kind and mine, but in the intervening years we have tried to bridge the chasm between us. You, on the other hand, make me want to slit your throat so that I will not be plagued by your needling insults.”

Sílchanar’s face was an expressionless mask. I swallowed, stepping forward.

“I’m really sorry about that, Mr Alhelon, sir,” I said in as placating a voice as I could. “But I assure you that giving him the information faster will get him off your hands faster. Can you show us the vault, please?”

Alhelon looked down at me, before sighing and taking out his key ring. “Your friend is an arrogant fool,” he said as he unlocked the door.

“People have called him worse than that,” I replied.

* * *

This particular vault, as Alhelon explained, contained all the belongings of the queen before her untimely death. It had been kept in the same condition as it had been on the day of the robbery’s discovery, with furniture overturned and boxes strewn about, and jewels and gold cast glimmering on the stone floor.

“The brooch was hollow,” Alhelon said, as Sílchanar started inspecting the ground and the overturned furniture. “Within it the queen was said to keep a ring.”

“What sort of ring?” I asked.

“A magic ring,” Alhelon replied. “Whether it was one of the lesser rings created before the Rings of Power were forged, or one of the missing Dwarvish rings, I have no idea.”

“I can imagine why someone would want the brooch, then, if it contained such a thing,” I said. “How powerful are the lesser rings?”

“I don’t know,” Alhelon admitted. “It was only whispers of speculation that we passed to each other, after all. How could we explain the queen’s jewel-hoard?” He gestured to the coins and jewellery strewn about the vault. “Our king may claim he has distrusted Dwarves ever since the fall of Doriath and the sacking of Menegroth, but what if the queen’s ring – and the Dwarves’ constant desire to reclaim what they think is theirs – had a factor in it?”

“Are you saying she did have a ring?” Sílchanar asked.

“No. I was only guessing.”

“Don’t guess. It makes you more incompetent.” Sílchanar straightened up. “You run the chance of holding too dearly onto the _wrong_ theory.” He shook his head. “There was no Ring of Power – or even a lesser ring – within the queen’s brooch, yet someone thought there was, so they sent a man to search. The man could enter the halls – he worked in the raft-trade on the Long Lake – and did so, entering under pretences of tabulating accounts with the butler, and exiting with the brooch in his pocket through the underwater stream!”

“And exactly how did you get all of that?” demanded Alhelon, scowling.

“The doors leading into the Elvenking’s halls are enchanted. There is no way anyone who did not know magic could sneak through them, and even if the burglar knew magic, it takes immense power to undo the charms on Thranduil’s gates.” Sílchanar paced in a small circle, pointing to the ground. “Traces of mud, originating from Lake-town. The only sort of Lake-men who have dealings with the elves are the ones in the river trade, and even then few of them have reason to enter Thranduil’s halls unless they have accounts to settle.”

“And the escape?” asked Alhelon.

“The mud traces head downwards for the cellar – the underground stream is in the cellar; I did listen to Bilbo Baggins when he returned from his adventure – and I also have reason to believe the thief thought that the theft of the brooch, which according to his masters must include some sort of magic ring, would raise an alarm by the enchanted gates. Therefore he escaped through the only other option available.” Sílchanar pretended to dust off his hands. “Now we only have to locate the Lake-men who have visited the halls recently, and we’ll –”

“We knew most of that already. Galion the butler was very helpful,” Alhelon snapped, and I couldn’t help but chuckle at the winded expression that flashed across Sílchanar’s face. “However, when we arrived to apprehend our thief Eyvindr, we found him missing, with a bloodstain and this –” here, he handed Sílchanar a rock, “in his bed.”


End file.
